


tell me how you want to wake up next to me

by wafflesofdoom



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-09 18:04:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18643273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wafflesofdoom/pseuds/wafflesofdoom
Summary: in all honesty, maybe this was eliot's fault, but he was never going to admit that he should have listened to tick before he dragged quentin on a diplomatic mission (see: holiday) to the far-flung islands where the people were apparently obsessed with sex magic.or, the one where quentin and eliot fake a relationship - for fillory, of course. no other reason for it.





	tell me how you want to wake up next to me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lesfemmesdangereuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesfemmesdangereuses/gifts).



> a birthday gift for kate, who got me into this show and is generally just a babe. 
> 
> set vaguely in season one or two, but doesn't necessarily fit with canon because fuck canon. title taken from memorize by EXES.

Fillory was a completely, utterly, batshit, backward place, Quentin decided. Maybe - maybe it was the opium in the air, but every single person they came across in Fillory was absolutely insane. You probably couldn't grow up on a steady diet of opium and be normal, Quentin felt, it had to mess up your brain chemistry a little, somehow, at least. That was - that had to be the reason why this was happening to him.

There couldn't be another reason why they were standing on the shores of one of the Far-Flung Islands (aptly named, considering how long it had taken them to get there via boat, the Muntjac chugging along at a pace that made Eliot violently bored, the High King hanging over Quentin's shoulder and pestering him for entertainment), the receiving delegation congratulating the High King on his new union with King Quentin.

"Um," Quentin couldn't help but stutter, looking helplessly at Eliot. "El?"

"Tick!" Eliot looked over his shoulder at their aide, brow furrowed. "An explanation, please. And quick."

Tick shuffled closer. "So, the Far-Flung Islands, they're quite a conservative people, in some ways," he began. "They marry young, have very strict beliefs about the strength of union between people, of love. They would, in fact, find it strange if you were a High King and were not in a relationship, sir. They are wholly convinced that power comes from having a great love in your life."

Eliot looked as though his head was about to burst, which would have been comical, at any other moment. "And was there any particular reason you didn't mention this before we came on this trip?"

"Well, I - I tried to, but you were quite insistent about bringing King Quentin on this trip and really did not want to listen to a word I was saying," Tick said, wringing his hands as he explained.

Eliot gave Quentin a pained look. "I never want to listen to a word you say, Tick, you should know this by now," he said. "If it's something actually important, your job is - quite literally - to force me to listen to you."

"My suggestion that it would perhaps not be the best idea to bring King Quentin on this trip was responded to with a - excuse my language - fuck you," Tick reminded. "You told me you hated diplomatic missions and so you'd rather bring Quentin so you didn't die of boredom."

Eliot gritted his teeth. "You didn't make it very clearly me bringing Quentin would make him my boyfriend, Tick," he said.

"Well, at the point of the conversation where I tried to, you told me to bring you a gallon of wine and not to speak for three days, sir, or you'd lock me in the castle dungeons because - well, because you said Fillory didn't have an equivalent of the Geneva Convention, though you also declined to explain what that is."

"Uh, guys," Quentin interrupted, glancing over at the welcoming delegation, who looked confused - and offended, actually, if Quentin's reading of their expressions and hushed whispers was correct. "I think we're being very undiplomatic."

Eliot looked over at the Islanders. "Is there any way we can tell them Quentin and I are not in a relationship without deeply offending them?" he asked, the answer already clear on Tick's face. He turned to Quentin, curls wild and spilling over the edge of his crown, the salty air of two weeks at sea taking a toll on Eliot's obsessive haircare routine. He was handsome, Quentin wasn't blind, the gold shimmer woven into his jacket glinting in the bright sunlight of the island morning. "Are you okay with this?" he asked, voice low, and quiet.

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't a big deal, Quentin knew that much. They'd - they'd killed the Beast, for crying out loud, this was nothing as dangerous, or as insane as that had been. But he couldn't shake the strange feeling of nervousness in his chest as he looked at Eliot. Diplomacy, and running a country, it was - it was hard, Quentin was realising that much.

"For Fillory, right?" Quentin said, shrugging slightly. Margo had tried to force him into something a bit more Fillorian, but Quentin had been steadfast in his choice to wear a button-down shirt and jeans, not caring about the strange looks he would always get from the people of Fillory as he'd mooch around the castle in his Earth clothes. He wasn't a fan of the bright, almost garish clothing that was the norm for the royals of Fillory, clothes Margo and Eliot had taken to wearing happily.

Eliot took a deep breath. "I'm so glad I brought vodka on this trip," he said, turning to the waiting crowd. "We - we weren't sure the news had spread this far, yet," he declared, a bright smile on his face.

One of the Islanders - their leader, Quentin presumed - stepped forward, closely followed by a girl with arms full of flowers. "But High King, of course, the news has reached us!" he declared happily, the girl with him showering Quentin and Eliot in flower necklaces, the perfume strangely strong, sort of intoxicating as Quentin inhaled, letting Eliot do all the talking. "I am sure you know how important love unions are for our culture, and we are so honoured that you and King Quentin have decided to grace us with your presence during the early days of your new union."

Eliot gave them a simpering smile. "We were just so excited to know more about your culture, and what better time to come?" he said smoothly, an arm slinking around Quentin's waist, tugging him close.

Quentin wasn't sure if it was the flowers, or if it was just Eliot's presence in general, the taller man always an intoxicating presence, from the moment they had first met on the quad at Brakebills, but his stomach flipped.

"Tonight, we have prepared a welcome feast for you, King Eliot and King Quentin, and we'd like you to participate in one of our most sacred traditions, the telling of your love story," the man - why couldn't Quentin remember his name? - said, gesturing for them to walk further into the village, Quentin suddenly struck by the beauty of the island. It was practically tropical, the sun already baking hot despite the early hour, the sand pure white under their feet as Quentin followed Eliot across the sand, slipping as the sands shifted underneath his feet.

"Alia, my daughter, will show you and King Quentin to your quarters," he said. "Please, rest, enjoy the weather - we will see you this afternoon."

Quentin stumbled over his feet as he followed Alia and Eliot across the sand, the young girl showing them to a rather grand looking structure, an admiring smile on her face as she tugged back the curtain.

"If I can bring you anything, please - just call for me," she said, stepping aside to let them enter.

Their quarters for the next few days were spectacular - to a not very travelled Quentin, at least - it looked like one of those insane tropical holidays Julia would always show him, trying to convince him that Quentin was the kind of person who could go on holiday to Thailand and actually have fun. The whole back of their quarters was open, soft, white sand rolling down into the crystal clear water, a free-standing shower charmed to cascade down over the sand, the water looking incredibly inviting to Quentin, there and then, after two weeks of showering with a rusty bucket on the Muntjac (the showering facilities left a lot to be desired, on their royal transport.)

"This is amazing," Quentin murmured, fingers brushing against the carefully crafted sandalwood furniture, an excessively large living room covered in bright throws, the sort of place he'd happily curl up and read a book.

"These people know how to live," Eliot hummed his agreement, suddenly stifling a laugh.

"What?"

Eliot crossed the room to the bed, gesturing at the blanket of brightly coloured flower petals that covered the sheets. "We are apparently on our honeymoon, my dear Quentin," he said, flopping backwards onto the bed and sending the flower petals floating into the air.

"That - that bit is a little crazy, right?" Quentin said, carefully settling himself down on the edge of the bed, flower petals soft under his fingertips as he looked at Eliot.

Eliot's crown was slightly askew, his friend settling his head in his hand as he turned on his side, looking carefully at Quentin. "I'm sure we could come up with something else, if you weren't comfortable with this, Q," he said, expression softening into one of genuine concern.

"It's fine," Quentin shook his head. "I - it's only for a little while, and it's their culture, so we shouldn't - we shouldn't offend them, El."

Eliot nodded. "No, we really shouldn't," he said. "Margo would have our heads on platters if we didn't play act a bit and get what we needed to do, done."

Quentin nodded.

"You look tired," Eliot commented, gesturing for Quentin to lie down with him.

"I am," Quentin admitted, unable to do anything except curl into the embrace Eliot offered him, tucking his chin into the crook of Eliot's neck.

"You can talk to me, Q."

Quentin breathed in the familiar scent of Eliot's cologne, the one he demanded they bring to Fillory every time. "I know," he said, voice barely audible through the layers of Eliot's clothes. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing if it's something."

"That makes no sense, El."

Eliot pulled back, pushing a thumb against Quentin's furrowed brow. "Is it Alice? School? Fillory?" he listed, reeling off every possible thing he could think might be bothering Quentin.

Quentin gave him an appreciative smile. "It's just - a bad brain week," he said, voice quiet. "You know how I get."

Eliot hummed. "It's why I wanted you to come on this trip with me," he admitted. "I figured some sun and quiet would be good for you, Q. I hope - I hope that's okay. I know I should have talked to you about it."

"Thank you for thinking of me, El."

Before their conversation could continue, Tick burst through the doors of their quarters, yelling. "Aphrodisiacs! The flowers are aphrodisiacs! Aphrodisiacs!"

Quentin had never moved faster in his life, rolling off the side of the bed and landing in a heap on the floor, Eliot springing to his feet with a lot more grace than Quentin had.

"All the flowers on this island are aphrodisiacs," Tick said, breathing heavily. "These people are very liberal in their approach to sex. In that - in that they think everyone should be having it at all times," he said. "They have uh - strong feelings about the consummation of a union."

"Of course they do," Eliot sighed, sitting down on a thankfully flower free chair, brushing flower petals from his jacket. "Alright, Tick, Q and I need a crash course in these crazy people, get talking."

Tick carefully inspected one of the empty chairs for flower petals, and once he'd decided it was safe, he sat down, hands folded in his lap. "When I said they were quite a conservative people, I meant it in the sense that they believe people should be married young, that it doesn't make sense for anyone - especially royals, as a matter of fact - to be single, there's strength in marriage," he began. 

"There's a but, isn't there?" 

Tick nodded. "They're very liberal about sex. They - they encourage it, actually, really believe in the power of it." 

Quentin raised an eyebrow. "Power of it?"

"Yes, well, the Far Flung Islanders believe that the power that comes from sex is what keeps their island as it is - the climate, the crops, everything."

Eliot looked as if he wanted a very stiff drink, Quentin decided, watching as his friend pressed a hand against his forehead. "These people believe sex magic powers this whole island?" 

"Essentially, yes," Tick said. "Hence the flower petals. They would consider it a great honour for you and King Quentin to have sex here during your visit, as the power that comes from a royal union -"

"Okay, okay, these people love sex, we get it," Eliot interrupted. "If you tell me they have weird public sex rituals, Tick, I swear to God I will throw you overboard on the way back to Whitespire."

Quentin had to stifle a giggle at the look of shock on Tick's face. "He doesn't mean it," he couldn't help but reassure their Fillorian companion, ever the peace-maker, settling into the role neither Margo, or Eliot filled very well, willing to listen to the weird and wacky concerns of their people.

"I absolutely do mean it," Eliot glared at Quentin, no heat behind his gaze. 

"There's no public sex rituals, sirs," Tick shook his head. "But you'll have to forgive the intense interest these people will have in you and King Quentin's relationship while we're here. And they - well, once they find out you two have uncoupled, there will be a brief but intense period of mourning where they may burn photographs of you both, or just one of you, depending on who they feel is responsible for the uncoupling."

Uncoupling.

Fillorians really were strange, strange people.

"Call it a break-up, Tick, we've had this conversation," Eliot sighed. "So we just need to play along, make them believe Q and I are madly in love, and they'll be happy and agree to the raise in taxes we're proposing?"

Tick nodded eagerly. "If they are to believe you and King Quentin are a shining example of love and light, they will certainly be agreeable to your proposals, sir," he said. "But they are affectionate people, sirs, you will have to - as Margo often says - pussy up." 

Margo's usual catchphrase sounded strange, coming from Tick, and Quentin had to stifle another giggle.

"You can go now, Tick," Eliot said, sounding exasperated with the man, as usual. Tick could be incredibly annoying, sure, but he just seemed to be in Eliot's bad books - he had been from the moment they'd met, and as Tick left their quarters, face screwed into an offended expression, he was sure the feeling was completely mutual. 

Quentin tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear, the thick heat of the air getting to him, strands of hair sticking to the back of his neck with sweat. Making a mental note to find a hair-tie somewhere, he turned to Eliot, still sitting on the floor, knees tucked to his chest. "Best to avoid the flower petals, then," he tried to joke, blowing a stray petal from the knee of his jeans, unsure of whether or not touching it was the best idea. He wasn't super into the idea of getting hyped up on aphrodisiacs on a remote island with only Eliot and their constituents for company. It sort of read like a recipe for revolt, if he was being honest.

Eliot looked as though he was contemplating walking through the portal and never returning to Fillory. "How is everyone in this world so strange?" he asked. "We have yet to meet a normal person in this place."

Quentin couldn't help but grin. "We're not exactly normal either, are we?" he said cheekily.

"Speak for yourself," Eliot huffed. "I'm a catch."

"You're high maintenance."

"This sass is entirely unappreciated, Coldwater," Eliot flicked a shower of flower petals at Quentin, his telekinesis coming in handy once again, the flowers wrapping around Quentin at a distance that didn't feel safe. 

Quentin grinned. "I learned it from you."

Eliot held a hand to his heart. "My first-year, all grown up," he teased, a comfortable silence falling between them. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

Quentin shrugged. "It's only for a couple of days," he said, glad of all the year's he'd spun fantastical lies to his father about his feelings because he managed to hide the tremor of nervousness in his voice as he realised he was agreeing to fake a relationship with Eliot, of all people. Quentin, he - well, he had two functional eyes, he knew Eliot was attractive, and every so often, during quiet evenings alone, a memory of the threesome they'd had with Margo flashed through his head. Eliot's lips on his - Eliot's tongue sweeping down the curve of Quentin's neck, Eliot's hands on Quentin's -

"Are you blushing, Q?" Eliot raised an eyebrow.

Quentin shook his head, trying to shake his thoughts away. "It's just hot," he admitted, not completely lying as he rolled his sleeves a little higher. 

"I told you that you were making impractical wardrobe choices."

"You told me you wanted to burn all of my clothes and introduce me to a concept called fashion, actually - and I told you, Julia has already tried, I like my clothes," Quentin retorted, stretching his legs out in front of him. It was nice, to have space, after two weeks stuck on a boat. The Muntjac might have been a magically larger than it looked boat, but there was still something claustrophobic about being stuck on a boat with no escape. Quentin really couldn't understand his mother's love for cruises, but then again, Quentin had never really understood his mother.

Eliot made a face. "I don't necessarily trust Julia's taste in clothing either," he admitted. "Anyway, my dear Q, we have more pressing issues - like what sort of story we are going to tell these people when they ask how we fell in love?"

Quentin shrugged. "You can tell the story and I'll just nod and agree."

That - 

Well, that was Quentin's first mistake (after agreeing to fake date his secret crush, of course.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"He stumbled onto our campus like an adorable puppy, lost and confused, and I just knew, I knew I needed to show him the light, I needed to be his guide, you know?" Eliot said, dramatically swilling his wine glass, their audience enraptured by his overly dramatic story. 

"What's a campus?" a tiny voice piped up.

"That doesn't matter, darling, keep up," Eliot shook his head. "That first week, Quentin - he was just so shy, you know?"

"I think you're remembering this differently," Quentin tried to interject, to save face even a little bit. 

"Q, sweetheart, please, let me tell our love story to these gracious people." 

Their leader - Angus, that was his name - piped up. "Not to interrupt, High King, but we have a rather different way of telling these stories," he said. "You both must start at the beginning."

"I am at the beginning, I told you, King Quentin and I met on Earth, at school -"

"No, the  _beginning_ ," Angus emphasised the word, as if that made it any clearer. "Love never starts with just one person, High King, both of your love stories began far before you met each other. You must understand the beginning in order to be able to understand the now."

"So - so like our first relationship?" Quentin asked, unsure if he wanted to retell his every disastrous relationship in front of an audience.

"Everything, King Quentin." 

Everything. 

Great.

Eliot gave a dramatic sigh. "I suppose I'll go first then," he said, cracking his neck as though he was about to tell a very long, dramatic, story. Knowing - knowing Eliot, he was, Quentin decided, settling back into his chair as Eliot launched into an overly elaborate story about his first ever crush, a farmboy in Indiana ("stop asking questions and go with it, Tick") every sad part of Eliot's love life before he'd left Indiana for New York carefully patched over with a joke, a smile, a sarcastic comment. 

Quentin couldn't help but admire Eliot's ability to talk about the worst parts of his life without ever letting anyone in on the fact they were the worst parts. It was just that Quentin had known Eliot for a while now, and he recognised that tight squeeze of his fingers around his wine glass as he told a story about the first boy he'd asked to a dance, a furrow in his brow betraying the fact that there was more to this story than he was willing to let on.

Eliot was an exceptional person, Quentin knew that. He never understood why this exceptional person wanted to be his friend, be friends with nervous, awkward, sad Quentin, but here they were, curled up on a bench together, Quentin tucked close to Eliot's side as he regaled the Far-Flung Islanders with stories of his firsts, and seconds, and wish it had never happeneds. 

He must have started dozing, unbeknownst to himself, Eliot's voice soothing him to sleep the way it had done so many times at Brakebills, Eliot studying with him, velvety smooth voice reading chapters of Quentin's required reading aloud as Quentin passed out on Eliot's lap, tired to his bones and slowly (but surely) burning out as a result of the insane workload they landed on first-years, trying to make up for a lifetime of not being taught magic in a matter of nine, or ten months.

"Q," Eliot's fingers were soft against his face as they brushed Quentin's hair out of the way. "You fell asleep."

Quentin looked up at him, bleary-eyed. "Sorry," he mumbled, voice hoarse from not being used for a few hours. "Is it my turn?"

Eliot laughed, the sound magical to Quentin's ears, the dying embers of the fire they had been sitting around the only thing illuminating their faces, the tiny floating balls of flame that had appeared as the sun had gone down earlier that evening having all since died out. "No, darling," he said, the pet-name making Quentin's stomach do somersaults, a flush rising in his cheeks.  "I asked that we continue tomorrow, I didn't want to wake you. You looked peaceful."

Quentin untangled himself from Eliot's side, rubbing at his sleep-heavy eyes. "I was," he admitted. "It's nice, here."

"Must be all the sex magic in the air," Eliot joked, pressing a gentle kiss to Quentin's forehead - not for show, Quentin noted, the two of them completely alone on the beach, their hosts all retired to their own homes. No, that was just pure affection on Eliot's part, the same way he was when he was two whiskeys in (not four, that was more maudlin drunk Eliot territory), tactile and affectionate in a way he normally only was with Margo. 

"I think it's the sea," Quentin admitted. "I - my dad used to take me to the seaside when I was having a really bad day, or week, or whatever. I liked the sound of the waves."

He got lost in the memory, as he let the sound of the nearby waves crash over him, remembering the days his father would take him to the ocean. Ted Coldwater had been left alone to raise a son who'd been diagnosed with clinical depression at sixteen, and so he'd had to find ways of dealing with it, the same way Quentin had, the two of them completely on their own. Quentin had just been released from the hospital, after his first suicide attempt, when his dad had bundled him into the car, rolled into a blanket like a burrito, shoving a coffee into Quentin's cold hands as they'd started on the long drive to the coast, coffee tasting like sandpaper against Quentin's tongue as he'd sipped at it, ready to cry as soon as he'd realised Ted had purposely made it a lot colder than normal, determined to remove every possible way Quentin could hurt himself.

He'd felt like a zombie, as they'd walked from the carpark from the beach, his dad occasionally bumping shoulders with him as they stumbled down the shifting sands, heading for the edge of the water, waves dark navy and angry as they crashed to shore, the winter weather making it so they were the only people on the sands. Quentin - he'd lasted a minute, before he'd just broken apart, sobbing into his dads arms. They'd stayed there for hours (three, Ted had admitted once, "three before you were blue with cold and I managed to get you back to the car") and on the drive home, Quentin had slowly opened up, cheeks red and eyes wet with tears as he'd tried to voice his feelings to his dad for the first time.

Every time after that, his dad had taken him to the beach on his worst days.

"I lost you there for a second," Eliot's voice brought him back to the there and then. 

"I was just thinking about my dad," Quentin admitted. 

"You miss him?"

Quentin nodded. "I do, actually," he said. "He - he was all I had, for a long time."

"Not anymore," Eliot reassured, his voice barely audible. "Come on, I had Tick remove every single one of those petals from our room, and that bed looks outrageously comfortable."

Quentin allowed himself to be pulled up from his slouching position on the couch, Eliot stronger than he looked. 

It was a testament to how tired Quentin was that he managed to make it through the whole process of washing his face, and brushing his teeth, before he freaked out, standing by their bed in pajamas he was sure Julia had bought him, Fillory and Further printed across the shorts like he was a child, his cheeks bright red as Eliot drank his appearance in, the older man wearing nothing except a pair of silk trousers Quentin's idiot monkey brain was itching to touch.

"I like these," Eliot said, biting back a grin as he gestured at Quentin's pajamas. 

"Shut up."

"I didn't know they made them in adult sizes," Eliot said, faking a gasp. "Does that mean there are others like you, Q? Fillory nerds who stayed nerds when they grew up?"

"You're a dick, you know that?" Quentin shoved a hand roughly through his hair, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole, there and then. 

"It's cute," Eliot said, in a way that should have been patronising but somehow wasn't. "Now, are you a left or a right kind of guy?"

"Uh - what?"

Eliot rolled his eyes. "Which side of the bed do you prefer, Q?"

Quentin swallowed. "I don't really - I don't really have a side," he said, shifting from one foot to the other.

"Is this the part where you tell me you do something really creepy, like sleep with your eyes open?" Eliot raised an eyebrow. 

"No, I - Icuddleinmysleepalot."

"Try that again, but in English."

"I can be kind of touchy-feely in my sleep, okay?" Quentin managed to blurt it out. "I don't even realise I'm doing it."

"You're telling me that you, Quentin Coldwater, the most insanely tactile person I know, is a clingy sleeper?" Eliot said. "I could have told you that!"

"I'm just going to sleep on the couch."

Eliot rolled his eyes again, yanking back the light sheet that covered the mattress, sliding beneath the covers. "Get in this bed, Quentin, before I make you," he ordered, daring Quentin to argue. "Don't be weird, Quentin, I've seen you naked, a cuddle isn't going to kill me."

"You just made it weird."

Eliot heaved out a sigh, and Quentin felt an invisible force yank him down into the insanely soft sheets. 

"I hate when you use your telekinesis on me."

"No, you don't," Eliot hummed, the lights in their quarters' outing, leaving their room bathed in nothing except moonlight, Eliot's outline fuzzy to Quentin. 

Quentin didn't argue, curling in on himself, back to Eliot. He was stiff, from forcing himself to be so small, so out of the way, and it didn't take long for Eliot to notice, a hand creeping around Quentin's front, Eliot's strong arms pulling Quentin's back to his chest, Eliot's larger body enveloping his.  

"El."

"You're a good little spoon," Eliot teased, grip comfortably tight, his mouth close enough that Quentin could feel Eliot's breath on his ear. 

Quentin closed his eyes, breathing evening out as he got used to the feeling of Eliot pressed so close to his back. "Shut up," he retorted weakly, his threat sounding a lot less threatening when you considered he was already half asleep. 

"Goodnight,  _darling_."

Quentin was glad it was dark enough that Eliot couldn't see the way his cheeks turned bright red at the pet name. 

Very, very glad.

 

 

 

 

 

(Eliot woke up with a mouthful of Quentin's hair tickling his skin, the younger man sleeping soundly in Eliot's arms, warm and real and deliciously pliant in Eliot's arms. Eliot would never say this aloud, he decided, but Quentin was deliciously spoonable, the right height for Eliot to tuck his chin into the groove of Quentin's shoulder, fingers clasped tightly around Eliot's wrist. A part of him could imagine this being his every-day life, Quentin bundled up in Eliot's arms, breathing slow and calm, worry and anxiety washed away, leaving a peaceful expression on Quentin's face that Eliot decided he'd pay to see there during his waking hours, Quentin looking his age for once, twenty-three and innocent looking.

Eliot wanted to ravish him. 

No, he - no, he couldn't do that, he couldn't, because Eliot was nearly certain he wouldn't survive the inevitable rejection, and he definitely wouldn't survive losing Quentin. He had been lucky, that their friendship had survived the disastrous aftermath of their threesome with Margo, Quentin taking weeks to unclench and feel comfortable around Eliot again, Eliot taking months to stop waking up with memories of how Quentin's warm skin had felt under his hands, his mouth.

He couldn't risk fucking it up.

But he - well, Eliot could hold onto a sleeping Quentin a little longer, the younger man showing no sign of waking up just yet. 

He could be selfish a while longer.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quentin was alone when he woke up, which he hated, honestly, trying to shake his feeling of grumpiness as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. Time was a funny thing in Fillory, but judging by the noise coming from the village, it wasn't exactly early - Quentin had just overslept quite a lot. Easing himself out of the cocoon of soft sheets, Quentin padded across the room toward the trunks they'd brought with them, heavy old wooden things. His was fairly simple, a mess of t-shirts and shirts and jeans, the rest of his space dedicated to Eliot's overflow, bright and oh-so Eliot like clothes making an outrageous mess in their room.

(Quentin didn't have a single passing thought about how this would be what it was like to really share a room with Eliot, Quentin happy to take a corner of the wardrobe while Eliot filled every available surface with clothes and accessories and Quentin just let it all happen around him, happy to have the bright colours and loud noises of Eliot Waigh fill the empty corners of his life. No, no, he definitely didn't think about that at all.)

Dressed in a plain pair of shorts and a t-shirt, Quentin decided to forgo shoes, enjoying the warmth of the sand under his bare feet as he left their quarters, only remembering at the last second to shove his crown on his head, Quentin not quite used to the rules and obligations that came with being royalty just yet. 

He heard Eliot before he saw him, the voice drifting toward him from the shores, Eliot standing with Angus and his council, watching as they fished, the Far-Flung Islanders standing up to their knees in the crystal clear water. 

"King Quentin," Angus bowed, something Quentin was definitely never going to get used to, or feel comfortable with. 

"I hope I'm not late," Quentin said, enjoying the warmth of the water as it lapped over his toes. 

"No, no, a King can never be late, sir," Angus said, smiling. "High King Eliot implored that we let you sleep, he mentioned you were ill of late and needed the rest."

"Uh, thank you," Quentin looked over at Eliot, his friend dressed about as casually as Eliot ever did, Fillorian style trousers rolled to the knee. 

"Morning, love," Eliot said, looking as though he didn't need to even think about what he was doing, pressing a kiss to Quentin's cheek, lips lingering by Quentin's ear. "I figured we should be selling this thing a bit harder," he said quietly, Quentin forcing his idiot brain not to melt directly out his ears at Eliot's proximity, the smell of his cologne making Quentin's head spin.

"Morning," Quentin replied with a smile. "What are you doing?"

"Our gracious hosts are teaching me how to fish," Eliot said, pausing for a second. "Well, they're fishing and I'm standing here uselessly. I regretted not waking you up as soon as I got here, it feels like something we should suffer together."

Quentin shrugged. "It can't be that hard."

Eliot flashed him a wicked grin. "That's what he said."

Quentin rolled his eyes. "Is sexual humor diplomatic nowadays?"

"In a place as obsessed with sex magic as here, yes."

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Turns out, Quentin is a natural when it comes to fishing. Eliot hadn't expected that one, giving up an hour in and watching from the shore, Quentin's shorts soaked through and his hair pulled back off his face in a messy bun that shouldn't have been as cute as it was. God, it really was one of the greatest travesties of Eliot's Waugh's life that Quentin was straight.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quentin swallowed his nerves as they sat around the fire with the locals, his turn to regal them with the boring details of his love life having come around all too quickly, after a peaceful day of fishing with the Islanders, and reading at the seashore. He - he really didn't have that exciting a life to talk about, not like Eliot and his flair for the dramatic. Quentin's love life was a series of fumbles and awkward encounters he'd rather no one else knew about.

"I - I think my first crush was probably Julia, my friend Julia," Quentin clarified. "We met when we were nine, and my dad and I moved to next door to her family. She - she was the first person besides my dad who paid me any attention, and she was nice, and pretty, and I. Yeah. I had a crush on Julia."

"Did she have a crush on you, King Quentin?" one of the younger Islanders asked. 

Quentin shook his head. "No, she - she didn't," he said. "But we stayed friends, and I liked her for a long time. I think I probably loved her, actually, but she didn't love me back, not how I wanted her to. But I got over it eventually, it's not - it's not a sad story. Julia is one of the best people I know," he said, taking a sip of his wine. It felt disingenuous, to reduce all those years he'd pined after Julia to a few sentences, but one of Quentin's (many) therapists had once told him that dwelling on the past, on past feelings, was never going to allow him to heal, so he tried not to dwell.

He didn't much fancy thinking of all those nights he'd spent curled up in his room, crying his heart out as Julia dated Thomas, and then Michael - and God, then James, and then James had stuck, more than anyone else ever had, and Quentin had to deal with his feelings head-on, gritting his teeth and plastering on a fake smile as Julia introduced him to a boy that would become an unwelcome third in Quentin's life.

"My - my first girlfriend was when I was in college - uh, like, well you don't have college here, do you?" Quentin rambled. "Sarah. She was nice," he said, thinking of the girl he'd dated for a couple of months when he was a freshman. She had been nice, and had these dark brown curls that Quentin had sort of fixated on, twirling his finger around a ringlet as they'd studied together, Sarah soft, and kind, and sweet, and the first girl who'd made him not think about Julia. He - he didn't exactly want to tell them about the awkward first times, and the less awkward fifth and tenth times, not when Eliot was sitting there, listening. 

He'd only tease.

"Did you love her, King Quentin?"

Quentin let out a shaky sigh. "No," he admitted. "I didn't, but we were happy, for a while. But then - then I met someone else," he couldn't hide his shame as he admitted it aloud. 

Eliot faked a gasp. "You didn't, you dirty dog Coldwater."

Quentin narrowed his eyes. "No, no - I didn't cheat on her, I broke up with her before anything happened," he shook his head. "I started dating Carter a few months later, just before I started my second year at college."

"What was she like?" 

"He was nice," Quentin said, glancing over at Eliot to try and gauge his reaction, Eliot's face an unreadable mask.

 

(He? He? HE? Eliot was on the verge of combusting.)

 

 

"I loved him," Quentin offered, taking a sip of the wine. He made a mental note to ask Eliot about bringing some of the Far-Flung Islanders wine back to Whitespire with them, the sweet taste far better than what they had in the cellars of the castle at the moment. "We were together for a while, actually, a year and a half."

"What happened?"

Quentin hated this question, he really did. He didn't like thinking about Carter, or how it had all ended. 

"He decided he didn't love me anymore," Quentin said quickly, hoping no one else would push for more information. These people were insanely nosey, and he didn't fancy talking much more about Carter. "And uh, I didn't date anyone for a while after than, until I met Alice and Eliot - Eliot was there for that, he saw how that ended."

"Spectacularly badly," Eliot offered. "Now, if you'd please excuse King Quentin and myself a little early tonight, I think we'd like to enjoy this beautiful sunset from our quarters."

"Of course, King King," Angus said. "Please, we can continue this tomorrow."

Quentin let Eliot manhandle him up and toward their quarters, not voicing his confusion until they were safely within the confines of their quarters. "Why did you do that?"

Eliot shrugged, holding a bottle of wine Quentin hadn't realised his friend had grabbed. "You looked uncomfortable," he said simply. "And I do want to watch the sunset without having to tell them about the time I was fifteen and I choked on a dick and got sick."

Quentin snorted, Eliot's embarrassing story making him feel more at ease. "Thanks," he said, grateful for Eliot's intervention. "How do you always know when I'm not feeling okay?"

"I've got a sixth sense - my Quentin sense," Eliot waggled his eyebrows, collapsing into one of the couches that faced their beach view.

"It's - it was the Carter thing," Quentin admitted, not really sure why he was bringing this up now. He settled onto the couch next to Eliot, tucking his feet underneath him, swiping the bottle of wine from Eliot. "He still gets to me, even now."

"You don't have to tell me," Eliot said, voice soft.

"No, I - I want to," Quentin said. God - it had taken him weeks to tell Julia, and Julia was his best friend. He'd never really planned to tell anyone else, ever. "We dated for a long time - by my standards, at least. I really - God, El, I really loved him, I loved him so much. We'd been together for about a year and a half when I had a breakdown. I'd - I'd been good for a while, actually, I was convinced I'd be fine, but apparently love doesn't solve clinical manic depression. Who knew?" he let out an uncomfortable laugh, brushing a nervous hand through his hair.

Eliot gave Quentin's knee a comforting squeeze, waiting for him to continue at his own pace. 

"That was the third time I tried to commit suicide," Quentin said, years of talking about all this meaning he probably sounded uncomfortably matter of fact. "I was in hospital for two weeks, back with my dad for three, and when I got back to college, Carter, he - he couldn't understand why I wasn't fine, when I was with him."

Eliot's brow furrowed. "Did he think he had a magic dick?" 

Quentin laughed. "No, he - he couldn't understand why I was so unhappy, even if I was happy with him," he said, thinking back to the painful conversations he'd had with Carter, bright, beautiful, happy Carter who couldn't wrap his head around Quentin's mental illness. "He couldn't deal with it, so he ended things."

"He couldn't deal with it?" Eliot's annoyance was practically tangible. "You - you're the one with the mental illness, all he had to do was not be a dick about it."

Quentin gave Eliot a reassuring smile. "I know, I know that now," he said, years of overthinking and stressing and desperately wondering why he hadn't been enough for Carter culminating in more than one therapy session where he'd cried his heart out about a boy, like he was a complete cliche, until Quentin had sort of mostly accepted it hadn't been his fault. 

"Dick," Eliot mumbled viciously. 

"It kind of put me off dating until Alice, and then - well, you know what happened there," Quentin said wryly. "I think I'm not cut out for dating."

Eliot raised the bottle of wine in cheers. "You and me both, Q," he said. "I have a number of boyfriends who've ended up literally dead. I think - I think the men of the world are safer if I stay single."

"Do you -" Quentin's question hitched in his throat. "Do you only like guys, then? I mean, when we - when we..." he trailed off. "What about Margo?"

Eliot looked thoughtful. "I don't dislike girls, per-say," he admitted. "But if I had a choice, I'd pick a guy. If that makes sense?"

"I - I guess."

"Margo and I are an attractive package deal for guys, sometimes," Eliot said. "But preference is definitely with people of the male variety."

Quentin nodded. "I never used to know if there was a label that fit me," he admitted. "I don't - I don't know if it was the medication I was on, or just the general depression, but I never really wanted to be with anyone. I liked Julia because she didn't make me feel like I was broken." 

"And Sarah?"

"She asked me out and I didn't see a reason to say no," Quentin shrugged. "And Carter - he was the surprise, actually."

"A surprise?" 

"Not a bad one," Quentin shrugged, shifting a little closer to Eliot, the wine giving him the kind of confidence he shouldn't want, there and then. "You were a surprise."

"Was I?"

Quentin nodded. "Margo - Margo is great," he said, prefacing what he was going to say next with that, because even if she wasn't here, Quentin was sure Margo had some sort of sixth sense for when she was being talked about. "But she's not what I remember about that night."

Eliot's eyes were dark, now, the golden sunset behind them starting to burn orange, the sun really setting, there and then. "What do you remember about that night?" his voice was different, as he spoke, pointed and hoarse, heavy with the sort of lust that made Quentin's stomach flip. 

"I - I remember you kissing my neck," Quentin said, emboldened. "I was kissing Margo, and all of a sudden, you were awake, and you were kissing my neck. You - you moved my hair, to the side."

"I remember that," Eliot murmured, brushing Quentin's hair aside, long fingers cool against Quentin's warm skin. "What else do you remember?"

"I remember wanting you, as soon as you kissed me," Quentin said, spurred on by Eliot's words. He shifted closer to Eliot, and then, after a second or two of thought, he moved so he was sitting astride Eliot's lap, rolling his hips against Eliot's. "I remember you grabbing me like this, and - and keeping me on your lap, even when Margo complained she felt like a third wheel."

Eliot laughed, at that one, hands on Quentin's lower back. "Do you want to know what I remember?"

"What do you remember?"

"You," Eliot said simply. "You, anxious, nervous, Quentin Coldwater kissing me like you knew what you wanted. Even - even if we were hyped up on those emotion bottles."

"I did know what I wanted," Quentin said, hands tangling in Eliot's messy curls, their mouths close enough to touch, now, Eliot's breath hot against Quentin's skin. "I know what I want."

At his words, Eliot's mouth crashed against his own, mouth warm and insistent against Quentin's own, Eliot knotting his fingers in Quentin's hair, tugging just enough to make Quentin groan into his mouth. With shaking hands, Quentin fumbled with the buttons of Eliot's waistcoat, scrabbling to undo them as fast as possible, desperate to feel Eliot's skin under his fingertips and commit every inch of it to memory. 

"Quentin, wait."

Quentin pulled back, red-faced and concerned at Eliot's words. "We don't have to -"

"Oh, we're going to, but in that giant bed," Eliot said, doing something entirely unexpected as he held onto Quentin's lower back, standing up on unsteady legs. 

"I'm way too heavy for you to be doing this."

"Maybe, but I'm going for the sexy, in control look here," Eliot joked, stumbling across their quarters and practically tossing Quentin onto the bed, forcing a shocked giggle out of Quentin.

A giggle that quickly faded as he looked up at Eliot from where he was spread out on the bed, Eliot's waistcoat and shirt undone, the toned skin of his stomach on show. Eliot was really, really fucking hot, and Quentin was not going to get distracted when there was miles of deliciously pale skin on show, all for the taking. 

All for Quentin's taking. 

Quentin tilted his chin upward, giving Eliot a challenging look. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(All Eliot wanted to do was kiss Quentin until he forgot his own name, he decided, settling himself in the open spread of Quentin's legs, the younger man giving as good as he got as Eliot kissed him, hands unhooking the complicated waistband of Eliot's trousers with a determination Eliot would have found endearing, if he wasn't trying to get into Quentin's pants, yanking at the buttons of his jeans like a man on a mission, Quentin deliciously responsive under Eliot's hands.

These - these were the parts of their first time together Eliot had forgotten in a haze of emotion magic - the way Quentin arched up into Eliot's mouth as Eliot brushed inquisitive fingers across Quentin's chest, thumbs pressing in the dips of his hips, making Quentin squirm. These were the things he hadn't been able to commit to memory, the breathless moans and the happy sighs, the way Quentin moved with Eliot like he was happy to be led, Eliot taking and taking just like he always did, and Quentin letting him. These were the things Eliot wish he'd kept forgotten because it was going to be even harder when Quentin came to his senses the next morning and realised this was a mistake. 

Eliot had now, he supposed.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The muscles in Quentin's body felt deliciously overworked as he came too, sunlight streaming through the open back of their quarters, his head resting on Eliot's chest. He couldn't help but take a few minutes to enjoy the rise and fall of Eliot's chest, listen to the steady beat of his heart, slow and sleepy just like Quentin's own. Eliot - he was beautiful, he really was, and even more so like this, completely unguarded and open, his curls falling across his forehead, face relaxed. 

Despite the things he'd said the previous night. wine-drunk and confident, Quentin hadn't remembered half enough of their first time together, with Margo, because if he had, he'd have done this a lot sooner, because Eliot - fuck, Eliot seemed to know exactly which of his buttons to push, how to push and pull and force the responses out of Quentin he usually pushed down with a bite to his lips. 

Shifting slightly, it dawned on Quentin just how gross he felt, eyeing up their spectacular outside shower with a greedy eye. 

With Eliot out for the count, and Quentin too wired to turn over and go back to sleep, this was his next best option. 

Easing himself out of the cocoon of their covers, Quentin padded across their quarters, the water spilling from the magical shower with a carefully practiced gesture, Quentin having messed it up, the first few times. He couldn't help but wonder if there was something magical in the water itself, the spray easing every knot in Quentin's back, every sore muscle. 

Yeah - yeah, he could get used to this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Eliot was alone when he woke up, which didn't surprise him, in all honesty. He'd been expecting this, expecting Quentin to freak out. 

Running a frustrated hand through his hair, Eliot sat up, only then noticing the sound of the shower, Quentin standing unashamedly naked under the spray. Eliot - well, he was only human, wasn't he? He couldn't help but admire the curve of Quentin's back, the way his hair (longer than normal now, after a few weeks in Fillory) fell against the back of his neck, skimming the tops of his shoulders. 

He was so fucking hot, Eliot sighed, and that was going to make it so much harder to let Quentin go now.)

 

 

 

 

 

Quentin felt like there was someone watching him, as he showered, and as he turned around, he realised he was right. Eliot was awake now, sitting up in their bed and looking like a goddamn supermodel, hair falling into his eyes and the duvet pooled around his waist, a strange expression on his face. Making the gesture to stop the water, Quentin reached for one of the towels that were piled alongside the shower, catching a whiff of the citrus-scented soap he'd used as he moved, enjoying the way the smell seemed to linger so much. 

He wrapped the towel around his waist, padding across the room, not particularly caring about the way the sand stuck to his damp feet. Quentin sort of felt like he was living out his isolated cabin on the beach fantasies, there and then. "Morning," he greeted, leaning in to press a kiss to Eliot's lips, surprised when the other man pulled away. "What's wrong?"

"We don't - we don't have to do this, Q," Eliot said, shaking his head. "We've spent days surrounded by every aphrodisiac under the sun. You don't have to pretend this was more than that."

Quentin, despite the warmth of the shower he'd just taken, despite the heat of the morning, felt the blood in his body run ice-cold at Eliot's words. "What are you saying?" he couldn't hide the tremor in his voice as he let Eliot's words sink in. 

"You don't have to pretend like you want this, Quentin."

Quentin couldn't help but feel angry. "I - I told you I wanted this, last night." 

"You said Carter was a surprise - I was a surprise," Eliot said. "You're in your twenties, Q, I get it, you want to experiment, I don't mind. But you don't need to pretend to me that this is going to be something more than that."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Quentin couldn't help but snap. 

"Q, just -"

"No, I - Eliot, I've always known I liked boys," Quentin looked at his friends. "I've never tried to hide that."

" _Q_."

"No, I need you to understand this," Quentin couldn't help but feel riled up, now. "I've always liked boys and girls, Eliot. Maybe that makes me bisexual - or pansexual, I don't know, I don't really care - but Carter wasn't surprising because he was a guy, he was surprised because I really loved him, Eliot, and by then I felt so numbed out by the medication I was on, I was convinced I wasn't capable of loving anyone. You were surprising to me because I didn't think someone as - someone as good looking as you could want me."

"Quentin -"

"No, fuck you, Eliot," Quentin said. "Don't try and tell me what I want, or don't want, because I know what I fucking want. If you don't want me, you don't have to give me all this bullshit about how I'm secretly just a straight boy experimenting, because if - if you keep doing that, I am going to scream this whole island down and you can deal with the consequences, Eliot, because I'm not - I'm not going to sit around and play your dutiful boyfriend if you won't even listen to me."

He was angry now, angry in a way Quentin rarely was, mood stabilisers always keeping him on the quieter spectrum of emotions. Grabbing the closest clothes to him, Quentin quickly got dressed, hair wet around his ears as he made to stomp out of their quarters.

"Q, I -"

"Go fuck yourself, Eliot."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Eliot, Eliot, Eliot. Ruining everything was the only thing Eliot Waugh had ever been good at.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quentin knew he was in a bad mood when even the sound of the sea didn't help him calm down.

"King Quentin," a vaguely familiar voice greeted him. "Do you mind if I join you?"

Quentin looked up to see Angus standing next to him. "Of course not," he said, not wanting to have company, but not really wanting to offend the Islanders either. 

"You seem to be in quite a sad mood this morning, King Quentin, if you don't mind me commenting," Angus said, sitting in the sand next to Quentin. "I've been told I'm a very good listener."

Quentin gave the man an appreciative smile. "Thank you," he said. "It's just - Eliot and I had an argument," he admitted, figuring Angus was the best shoulder to cry on he had on a remote island, a million miles from Margo, or anyone else. 

"Love is not often easy, King Quentin," Angus said. "But there wouldn't be any magic in it if it was."

"Do you really believe that?"

Angus nodded. "I do," he said. "Nothing worth having is easy, King Quentin, and relationships - they are harder, in the beginning, because you start to see that the person you love so much is not this idealised person you believed they were. They have flaws, they make mistakes, they say things they don't mean in the heat of the moment."

"How do you know if it's worth it, then?" Quentin couldn't help but ask.

"I think you have to ask yourself if you can see your life without that person in it," Angus said. "Because if you can't, then you know you have the real thing. Nothing - nothing worth having is easy, King Quentin, but anything worth having is worth fighting for."

Quentin couldn't help but smile. "I can see why your people are so happy," he commented.

"How so?"

"On Earth, sometimes I feel like we don't give love the value it deserves," Quentin said. "You give it the value it deserves, I think."

"Life is tough enough without love, King Quentin," Angus said. "I am sure whatever you and High King Eliot are arguing about is something perfectly resolvable. I've seen the way he looks at you, if you don't mind me saying - it's as though you are the greatest thing in the universe."

Quentin doubted that, somehow.

"Thank you - for the advice."

Angus inclined his head. "Of course, King Quentin. I look forward to seeing you at the banquet tonight." 

Quentin nodded. "See you tonight."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quentin, despite how long he'd had his long hair, was spectacularly bad at actually doing his own hair. For their first banquet in Fillory, the first Quentin had attended at least, Margo had shoved him into a chair and braided his hair out of his face, his crown sitting on top of her careful braiding in a way Quentin was desperately trying to emulate, shaking fingers knotting in his hair as he sat in front of the mirror. 

"Can I - will you let me help you?"

Quentin looked over his shoulder to see Eliot hovering beside him, looking awkward. "It's fine."

"Margo broke her hand, our first year," Eliot said. "So I had to learn to braid her hair for her. I can do it."

Quentin was too tired to argue, he decided. "Okay," he said simply, sitting back and letting Eliot start to tease the tangles out of Quentin's hair. 

Eliot's fingers were gentle as they undid the knots Quentin had tangled his hair into, easing the brush through Quentin's hair. It was relaxing, to have someone else do his hair, and Quentin couldn't help but close his eyes as Eliot worked, knowledgeable fingers teasing Quentin's hair into neat braids. "Your hair suits you like this," Eliot commented, tying the end of the first braid with one of the hair ties Quentin had scrounged from the villagers.

"Can we - can we just not talk?" Quentin found himself pleading. "I don't want to talk to you right now, El."

 

 

("I don't want to talk to you right now, El."

Eliot was such a fuck up. He was - he was the fuck up of all fuck-ups, really, and he could hear the hurt, the betrayal in Quentin's voice as he pleaded with Eliot to stop talking, Quentin's hair was soft under Eliot's fingertips, and he just wished he'd managed not to ruin the one good thing he had going for him.)

 

 

Eliot's voice was quiet, when he replied. "Okay. We don't have to talk."

Quentin wished his heart would stop thundering in his chest. "Thanks."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quentin had managed to avoid Eliot for most of the banquet, but it was inevitable that the villagers would want to ask them to finish their love story. 

"Please, King Quentin!" one of the smaller village children pleaded. "Please, we want to hear about how you and King Eliot fell in love!"

Quentin was tempted to start a war and say no, but he didn't want to face Margo's wrath. "Yeah, sure," he said, glancing over to Eliot. "We - we met, my first day at college. But you know that bit, right?" he asked, receiving enthusiastic nods in response. "As soon as I met him, I knew I wanted to know more about him. I don't think I knew I liked him, then, but I thought he was an interesting person. He was much cooler than me, and I was sort of intimidated by him, actually." 

"When did you know you liked him?" 

Quentin couldn't help his smile. "I think I probably knew at the end of my first week at college," he said. "He - he was always so kind to me, and he made me feel special, and I don't really feel special, normally. But I didn't think Eliot liked me, so I didn't do anything about it. I dated someone else for a while, but I always liked him." 

"When did you know he liked you?"

"I uh - I didn't, I just took a chance on him," Quentin said, swallowing thickly, wishing what he was about to say was true. "And it paid off, because he liked me too, and here we are." 

"King Eliot! King Eliot! When did you know you loved King Quentin?"

 

 

 

 

 

(Eliot couldn't take his eyes off Quentin, as he spoke. "I loved him from the moment I met him," he said, voice soft. "He's the kindest, bravest person I've ever met in my life, and I wish I was more like him.")

 

 

 

 

Angus looked between them, an affectionate look on his face. "For the night that's in it, will you give us a kiss, King Eliot, King Quentin? We've been so honoured to hear your story over the past few nights."

 

 

(No, no - no.)

 

 

 

"Sure," Quentin gave a stiff smile, shuffling closer to Eliot. He pressed a chaste, barely there kiss to Eliot's lips, clearly wanting it to be over as quickly as possible. 

 

 

 

 

(Eliot held tightly to Quentin's waist, not letting him move. "I'm sorry," he murmured against Quentin's lips, keeping them close together. 

Quentin's expression was unreadable as he replied. "I don't want to hear it.")

 

 

 

 

 

It took an uncomfortable twenty minutes before Quentin managed to escape the party, standing at the edge of the water, having long since abandoned his shoes, his trousers rolled up to the ankle. He was angry, and hurt, and most of all, he was angry at himself for wanting Eliot so much, for believing that someone like him could actually have Eliot be interested in him, actually want him. 

"Quentin."

"Can't you just leave me alone?" Quentin demanded, turning around to look at Eliot. 

"Q, please, just let me explain."

"No, I think you did enough explaining this morning," Quentin shook his head. "I don't want to hear it, Eliot."

"Q."

"I wanted you, I wanted you and I told you that, and you just - you threw it back in my face like I was some kid experimenting!" Quentin yelled. "You don't - you don't get to tell me how I feel, Eliot."

"I don't want to tell you how you feel, I want to tell you how I feel!" Eliot yelled back in response, his outburst silencing Quentin. "I - God, Q, I'm an idiot, I'm such an idiot. Whenever I have something good, someone good, in my life, I run from it before I can fuck it up, because I always fuck everything up, and I just - I couldn't bear the thought of losing you, Quentin."

"El-"

"You are the bravest, kindest, most incredible person I have ever met in my life, Quentin, and I absolutely do not deserve you," Eliot said. "But I have always, always wanted you."

Quentin felt his resolve melt a little. "Eliot, it's not - you deserve me. We deserve each other." 

"Q."

"You don't get to run away from something that hasn't even had a chance to begin, Eliot," Quentin said, shaking his head. 

"I'm a mess, Quentin."

"I - I don't care," Quentin shook his head. "Eliot, I don't care."

"I'm going to completely fuck this up, I swear," Eliot said.

 

 

(God, he was, he was going to completely fuck it up, and he was going to break Quentin's heart, and he -)

 

 

"At least give us a chance before you do," Quentin said, reaching out for Eliot. "You were a surprise because I - I found it surprising you'd want me, El."

 

 

(How could Eliot not want him? Quentin was gorgeous, and kind, and beautiful, and -)

 

 

"I want you, Q," Eliot said, sliding a hand around the back of Quentin's neck. "I want you, and I am sorry if I ever made you feel like I didn't, because I have wanted you from the moment I met you, Quentin. You were a surprise to me, too."

"A good surprise?" Quentin asked, voice hopeful. 

"The greatest surprise of my life," Eliot said, his voice soft. 

Quentin rocked forward on his heels. "Okay."

"Okay? That's all I'm getting?"

Quentin gave Eliot a cheeky grin. "Maybe I want to make you work for it a bit more. You denied me morning sex, which was really offensive of you." 

Eliot laughed, that genuine, free, absolutely magical laugh that Quentin wanted to bottle and play on a loop for the rest of his life. "How am I ever going to make it up to you?" he asked. 

Quentin hummed. "I can think of a few ways." 

"Oh, really?"

"Most start with us leaving this party offensively early and you being very apologetic." 

Eliot laughed again, pressing a soft kiss to Quentin's lips, the kind that Quentin felt like he could feel right down to his toes. "That sounds like a deal to me, Q."

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So," Eliot said, tugging Quentin close to his head. "Two weeks stuck on a boat, just me, and you."

"And Tick," Quentin supplied helpfully, ducking the playful swat Eliot directed at him. 

"Just me and you," Eliot sighed happily. "Whatever will we do, my dear Quentin?"

Quentin flushed pink at Eliot's words, his maybe (definitely) boyfriend having discovered during their time with the Far-Flung Islanders that pet-names were the best way to reduce Quentin to a blushing pile of mush. "I'm sure you'll have a few ideas," he said, watching as the island started to fade to distant nothingness. 

"Oh Q, you gorgeous, silly, beautiful boy," Eliot sighed happily, pressing a long, lingering kiss to Quentin's lips. "We're going to have so much fun."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So - tell me if I have this right - you went on a diplomatic mission for three days, did zero diplomacy, faked a relationship, and now you're in an actual relationship?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's about correct," Quentin managed to mumble, Eliot descending into hysterical laughter as they stood in front of Margo, like two schoolchildren who'd been playing up in the schoolyard. 

Margo sighed, slumping in her throne. "What an absolute pair of cocks you are."

"You're my favourite cock," Eliot murmured, breath hot against Quentin's ear.

"That's not flirting, El."

 

 

 


End file.
